


a reason to be loved

by gotatheory



Series: Home [3]
Category: The Hunger Games
Genre: F/M, non-graphic mentions of past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotatheory/pseuds/gotatheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You put your arms around me and I’m home.</i> After the war, Effie returns to District 12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a reason to be loved

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [lay down on the cold ground](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3319613).

**a reason to be loved**

Everything changes when Katniss Everdeen assassinates the wrong president. Effie actually lets out a little cry when President Coin falls from the balcony, and it has nothing to do with particularly thinking that Katniss made a mistake, and everything to do with Katniss not following the plan.

But Katniss never did care about plans, so Effie supposes she really shouldn’t start now.

Haymitch is quick to pull Effie away and to his side, keeping her close as hell breaks loose around them. He moves back from the crowd suddenly rushing forward, and Effie is glad to let him take the lead.

At least he doesn’t leave her behind, this time.

*

Katniss is sedated immediately, and Commander Paylor made president pro tem until they can sort a formal vote out. Effie only knows this because Haymitch tells her; no one sees fit to include her in on the planning. She would take offense to that, but Effie has long since grown out of taking offense at such minor things.

The revolution is over. It’s time for the rebuilding.

Katniss and Peeta will return to District 12, and Haymitch will go with them. They haven’t discussed it, but she knows. It’s for the same reason she stays in the Capitol.

It’s still home.

At one of the Capitol hospitals instead of the rebellion bunker, Effie can get more proper care. She gets a full body polish, erasing the remains of her scars away. Her skin has hung slightly loose from her body from her time starving in captivity, but the surgery pulls it tight across her bones. Her nails are filed and buffed, her hair given treatments to bring it back to life. By the end of it, she looks like Effie Trinket, Capitol escort.

She goes into her apartment, untouched except for the day Venia, Octavia, and Flavius were dispatched to fetch her clothes, and she walks through until she reaches her bathroom. She is wearing the golden hair and makeup and dress the prep team brought her for Snow’s execution.

Very slowly, she removes the wig, and then the dress. She lets the satiny material fall and crumple on the floor. She kicks off the ballet flats she wore since she was still afraid of her stilettoes. She turns on the sink and waits for the water to get blistering hot, and then she scrubs at her skin until the powder and foundation and metallic gold eye shadow run and stain the porcelain.

When she is finished, she can still see lacework scars tracing over her reddened skin.

*

She writes letters to Haymitch, Katniss, and Peeta every week. She doesn’t send all of them; some are only a few lines long, asking after their health, and on some days it seems too silly to ask. Peeta is the only one that replies, but she expected that, so it doesn’t really hurt.

His script is neat on the paper as he talks about Katniss and how she is healing. He tells her all about District 12 and how he’s trying to get the bakery up and running. At the end, just before he closes, he writes some variant of: _Haymitch is drinking again. Some days he doesn’t come out of his house._

When she reads it, she ignores the ache that blossoms in her chest, and instead resolves to phone Octavia and take her out to lunch.

*

Months after the revolution has ended, Plutarch offers her a job. He has revived the once-thriving entertainment industry and thinks she would make an excellent host for a talk show he is producing.

She reads Peeta’s latest letter: _Haymitch is getting worse. Katniss and I don’t know what to do to help him._

She sends a quick note to Plutarch, accepting the position. She has no words of comfort for Peeta. She dealt with Haymitch for eleven years, and she has been no help to him in the time she has known him. She didn’t understand his problem at the time, but now, she feels the crushing desperation to remain in bed with the curtains drawn, ignoring the outside world. Everyone has their own methods of coping.

She begins drafting a schedule for the next few weeks.

*

Effie slides effortlessly into the position. Though she has not been the same since the revolution, she can affect a facsimile of what she used to be. The Capitol loves it – though some weren’t pleased with the coup, many are glad to be out of the iron grip of Snow. She is the former escort for District 12, home of the Mockingjay that started it all, and she is worshipped for it.

It is everything she has ever wanted.

Now, as she lets Octavia style her wig, Venia do her makeup, and Flavius file her nails, she looks in the mirror. She can hardly believe that that is her reflection, muddled by the bright robin’s egg blue eye shadow and bone white powder. It all seems so fake, so manufactured, like her blinding personality as she bounces on the stage to boisterous applause. Nothing about the woman in the mirror looks like Effie Trinket, former captive.

“Effie?” Venia has noticed the frown marring her otherwise lovely face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she lies smoothly, a habit she has fallen into quite unwillingly. “Can I have just a moment?”

“Of course,” Octavia says, and the team disperses quietly and efficiently. Effie isn’t the only one that’s changed.

Effie stares at herself in the mirror. _My name is Effie Trinket. I am a talk show host. I used to be an escort, but Haymitch and Katniss ended the Games. I am all right._

Minutes later, the team has returned, reminding her that she has to go on. She nods once to acknowledge them and walks onto the stage. She does not smile as the audience claps for her.

Instead, she holds up her hands and says, “I am so very sorry, but I’m afraid that I can’t do this anymore. Thank you so much for your love and appreciation.”

She walks off into the wings, her team staring at her with open mouths, and she leaves a very confused Capitol behind.

*

When the train pulls into the station, she can hardly believe it’s the same district. It has been a year since the war, and the place is still in ruins. She can see the signs of rebuilding and where it abruptly ends, presumably because there is only so much money and District 12 was never a prize anyway.

No one greets her at the station, but that does not surprise her. The note to Peeta was sent only minutes before she boarded the train. It will take a day, at most, to arrive with the rest of the post. She makes a mental draft of the apology she will need once she finds them.

People stare at her as she walks through the streets, and she feels self-conscious in her Capitol attire. She’s still wearing the orange dress the stylists squeezed her into for the show, though she made an effort to remove the butterfly eyelashes and most of the white powder – she didn’t want to walk into District 12 looking like a corpse. Still, their eyes follow her, and she wonders if they recognize her. It feels like the Games were years ago.

She walks to the Victors’ Village, left untouched by the bombing, but she knows it’s not as empty as it used to be. She can see Haymitch’s house, the yard overgrown as usual and a couple of geese wandering about. Across the street, she sees Peeta’s and Katniss’s houses, and judging from the well-kept garden, she assumes Peeta is at least trying to keep up appearances there.

At the gates of the Village, Effie stops, and realizes she has absolutely no business being there. What was she going to do? What was she thinking, showing up like this, without proper notice? It was deplorable. Her mother is spinning in her grave, without a doubt.

Decision made, she spins abruptly on her kitten heels (she never perfected walking in anything higher after her captivity), and meets the confused face of Peeta.

“Effie?” says Peeta stupidly, blinking several times. “What are you doing here?”

From years of practice, Effie pastes her television smile on her face and chirps, “Peeta! Hello!” On instinct, she almost pulls him into hug, but then she remembers how everything changed for all of them, and instead her arms stay at her sides. “I thought I would come for a little visit. You know, see how you and Katniss are doing!”

“Shouldn’t you be on TV right now?” Peeta asks, tilting his head.

“What?” Effie’s smile falters.

“Your show. It’s usually on now, isn’t it?” he says, glancing back at the giant clock looming over the Justice Building. It can be seen from anywhere in the tiny district.

“You watch my show?” she says, and she thinks her smile might be genuine this time.

“Oh, uh…” Peeta looks away for a moment, doesn’t meet her eyes when he says, “Sometimes.”

She beams at him, truly touched. “How sweet of you!” She really wants to hug him now, but she claps her hands together instead. “Well, I decided to take a little sabbatical. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you and Katniss, and I thought it would be nice to stop by!”

Remembering her manners, she adds, “I am sorry for the short notice, however! I sent a letter to let you know, but I suppose it hasn’t had time to get here yet.”

“No, it’s no problem. Katniss is out hunting right now – but she should be back later,” he says, beginning to lead the way into the Village. He takes her to his house, asks if she would like to come in and sit down for some tea, like he and Effie Trinket do this every day.

Effie accepts, and as she enters, she looks back at the house across the way. It is dark, and with the ivy hanging from the walls and weeds nearly up to her knees sprouting in the yard, she would think it deserted if she didn’t know any better.

*

District 12 tea is not nearly as sweet and delicious as the tea that Effie is accustomed to drinking in the Capitol, but she finds the bitterness refreshing. Peeta also offers her slices of sweetbread, made by him, and he tells her about how the bakery is doing. She nods and hums in the right places, so he knows she’s listening, but Effie cannot find it in her to pay much attention to his words. He talks about Katniss, how both of them are sort of recovering, how the nightmares are still there and she tries to hunt them away while he tries to paint them away.

And then he leads her through his house, showing her the paintings, and they take her breath away and wrench at her heart. Most of them are terribly sad, clearly inspired by the sights in the Arena or the rebellion. One is a dark cell, with just a little light filtering through, and she thinks she recognizes the form huddled in the corner as Johanna Mason. In another, she easily identifies Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair on a stylized beach.

The one she thinks is most beautiful is of Katniss, wearing a simple black and white dress and a feather in her hair. Her bow is strapped to her back, knees curled up to her chest, and she sits in a meadow of primroses.

“Oh, Peeta,” she breathes, because there are no words.

“There’s another one I want to show you,” he says, leading her to a room with several canvases scattered around. “It’s not finished, yet, but since you’re here now and I don’t know when else I might see you…”

He takes her around to a table with a single canvas on it, and everything in her stops when she sees it.

“Oh,” she gasps. He has made her speechless once more.

The painting is of her, in the golden outfit she wore for Snow’s – Coin’s – execution. She looks exactly like she did that day, except for a few minor details. Instead of the massive golden wig that she wore, golden blonde hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders, catching in a wind. Her makeup is a more subtle gold than what she actually wore. She looks as if she is glowing, self-illuminated.

Next to her is Haymitch, wearing a smoke gray suit, something she is quite positive he doesn’t own. But he’s holding her arm, the same way he did that day because she still couldn’t walk unassisted. He looks peaceful. They both do.

“I hope you don’t mind, I took some liberties,” Peeta says quickly.

“Oh, Peeta,” she says again, “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. You can have it once it’s finished, if you want?”

“Yes, I would love that. I’ll pay you however much you want for it…”

“That won’t be necessary, Effie,” he laughs. “It’s a gift.”

“No, you have to let me do something for you,” she insists. “Let me give you money for the bakery, or for – I don’t know, something in the district?”

“We’ll talk about it when it’s done,” Peeta says instead, and she nods. She can’t take her eyes off of it. “You know,” Peeta murmurs, “I think he misses you.”

She laughs. “Oh, I highly doubt that,” she replies, shaking her head. “But it’s sweet of you to think so.”

“You should go visit him,” says Peeta quietly. “He’s not doing too well.”

“Is he sick?” Effie asks, and worry constricts her chest. She hasn’t seen him in a year, but the thought that she might never see him again frightens her more than anything.

Peeta sighs. “He’s not really sick, but he doesn’t do anything. He just sits around drinking all the time. I’ve tried talking to him, but nothing helps. Katniss even tried yelling at him, but that didn’t work either. He threw her out. They’re not talking at all, now.”

“I don’t think seeing me is going to help much, Peeta,” she says softly. “We’ve never gotten along, remember?”

Peeta looks at her, holding her gaze for a long moment. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” he finally says.

She turns away, and stares at the painting.

*

It’s when Katniss returns that Effie decides to leave Peeta’s house. She doesn’t leave right away, small talking with Katniss until she can tell the younger girl doesn’t care about inquiries about her wellbeing, and she has a satchel of small, furry creatures to skin for food. She promises to return at some point, and she’d pick a date if she had any idea about what she was doing. Outside on the front step, she stares at Haymitch’s dark house.

“What the hell,” she mutters, offering a mental apology to her mother for the swear as she stalks across the street and up to the front door. She knocks on the door, listens for some sound of movement.

“Haymitch?” she calls through the door. Still no sound, so she knocks louder. When he still doesn’t answer, she jiggles the doorknob, only to find it locked. She tries calling his name again. “Please,” she says, speaking loudly to be heard through the sturdy wooden door. “It’s me. It’s Effie.”

She hears something stir, finally, and the dull thump of footsteps come closer until they stop at the door. But it doesn’t open.

“Effie?”

The voice is so soft she almost doesn’t hear it. She moves closer to the door, pressing her cheek and her hands against it. “Yes, Haymitch, it’s me. Please open the door?” she murmurs.

“What are you doing here?” he says through the door after a pause. His voice is louder, gruffer this time. “There are no more Games.”

She frowns. “What?”

“It’s that time of year – you’d come for the reaping. But there are no more Games.”

“Oh,” she whispers. She hadn’t even realized. “I didn’t think… I didn’t come for that. I came to visit Katniss and Peeta… and you.”

The silence hangs between them longer, and she closes her eyes, whispering silent pleas to him to open the door.

“I don’t want to see you,” he says matter-of-factly, without any regard for her feelings.

“Haymitch,” she says, rolling her eyes, because she has never cared about his feelings either. “Let me in.”

“You’re just going to be pissed off when you see the house,” he hedges.

“Please,” she breathes, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over her. She feels so tired. She’s spent the entire day pretending, trying to be Effie Trinket, Capitol darling, and now she just wants to lie down and sleep for an age.

“Give me a few moments,” Haymitch mumbles, and his footsteps retreat from the door.

She wants to cry. She hasn’t cried since Snow, since Coin, because there was no reason to cry after everything. The hard part was over and she got to go back to the Capitol and—

Before her thoughts run too far away with her, Haymitch opens the door. For a second, Effie thinks he looks surprisingly clean for someone supposedly wasting away in his house. Then she realizes that his hair is damp and water drips from his brow to the curve of his unshaven jaw.

“Were you – did you clean up for me?” she exclaims.

He glares at her, taking in her bright orange dress and blue makeup, and shakes his head. “What the hell are you doing here, Effie? Aren’t you hosting some show now or something?” he asks, walking away from the door.

She watches him stumble, following him into the house, and she takes in the destroyed surroundings. Bits of furniture are overturned, broken glass and bottles litter the floor, and the dust has been there so long that Effie thinks the only way to get rid of it would be to burn everything and start over.

“I decided to take a sabbatical.” The lie falls so easily from her lips, she thinks she might end up convincing herself.

He stares at her, gray eyes bloodshot but alert, and then he laughs. “This is great!” he chuckles, flopping down on his sofa.

“What is so funny?” Effie frowns, carefully crossing over to the one chair left upright, before thinking better of it. She’s fairly certain that something has stained it and she doesn’t want to risk her dress.

“Effie Trinket is unhappy with her home,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

Was she that obvious? She gawks at him, because her mind is not quick enough to cover up her shock. “What are you talking about?” she exclaims instead, but the denial is too slow and it makes Haymitch laugh harder.

“Come on, darlin’, I’m drunk, not stupid,” he replies.

“Are you sure of that?” Effie retorts easily, falling back into their old pattern.

“Why else would you be in District Twelve – the hellhole of hellholes, even in this reimagined Panem?” he says, ignoring her remark. “You have your fancy television show and your fancy dresses and more fame than you ever got working as an escort, but you’re here.”

“It’s been a while since we all saw each other, Haymitch,” she says quietly. “Maybe it was muscle memory. You said it yourself; this is the time of year for the reaping.”

Haymitch watches her with raised eyebrows. “Careful, you don’t want to sprain something with all of that self-delusion.” He reaches for a half-empty bottle of white liquor and drinks straight out of it.

“Really, can’t you use a glass?” Effie tuts at him, striding into the kitchen to get just that.

“You’re free to leave whenever you like, darlin’,” he calls after her. “Now that you’ve done your rounds and checked on the poor drunk of District Twelve.”

“Stop calling me that,” she snaps, coming back with two glasses in her hands.

He raises his eyebrows again and watches her sit down next to him on the couch. “And what do you think you’re doing with that, _darlin’_?” he says with a nod toward the second glass.

She narrows her eyes at him. “It’s rude to drink without offering some to your guests,” she tells him airily, and he chuckles, letting her take the bottle out of his hands. She pours them each a drink and sets the bottle on the floor, out of his reach.

“Glad to see you’re back to your old self,” Haymitch mutters, accepting the glass she hands him.

She takes a long sip from her own glass, closing her eyes against the burn. “I’m not,” she admits quietly, looking down at the tumbler in her hands. She feels Haymitch’s eyes on her, but she doesn’t look at him. “I woke up today and looked in the mirror and all I could see was the Capitol. I don’t think I can be _that_ anymore.”

“Well,” he says after a long moment. “What are you going to do now?”

She turns and looks him in the eye, and for a second, all he sees is the broken woman sitting on the floor, unable to stand by herself. “I came here,” she says, and the sudden helplessness crushes her, making her gasp. The tears don’t come, but her body dry heaves.

Haymitch watches her awkwardly, before placing a hand on her back. “Shh,” he murmurs, and rubs what he hopes are comforting circles into her bright orange dress. He weighs his next words carefully before voicing them. “There’s plenty of empty houses here.”

*

So just like that, she moves to District 12. She doesn’t think it’s going to be easy, and she’s right. District 12 is nothing like the Capitol – which was what she wanted, right? – but she can’t figure out how to not be Capitol.

Her clothes and things arrive two days after she agrees to stay in the house next to Haymitch’s, a simple note from Octavia attached to one of the trunks: _Good luck_. Effie doesn’t quite know what to make of that, but she gratefully pulls out her clothes and hangs as many of them as she can in the small closet of her bedroom. Haymitch is there, somehow coerced into helping her bring her things inside.

“We’re going to need a bigger wardrobe,” she says quite seriously to him, looking at all of the dresses she still has to hang.

“Good thing you have a lot of space,” he replies from the spot he took up on her bed, looking at her over the rim of a bottle as he drinks. “Can’t believe you’re really going to wear all that shit here.”

“What do you mean?” says Effie with such innocence that it makes Haymitch sick to his stomach. She could be so clueless, even now.

“You’re in District Twelve now. We’re getting better, but we’re still not overly fond of the Capitol.”

She frowns, and looks at her rainbow of dresses. She cannot imagine wearing anything like the drab clothes she has seen the women of District 12 walk around in. She can still remember how bad she felt in District 13 without her makeup and tottering heels and flamboyant skirts.

“I thought you didn’t want to be Capitol anymore, anyway,” he continues, oblivious to her emotional pain. “Thought that’s why you came here.”

She wants to say: “Yes, of course.”

She wants to tell him: “I’ll change. I’ll buy new clothes. Wear less makeup.”

Instead, she snaps her fingers. “Come on, we still have a lot of unpacking to do.”

He doesn’t get up right away, but he eventually follows her into the next bedroom, still carrying his bottle.

*

They live next door to each other, but Effie makes herself at home at Haymitch’s place. All of her things stay at her house, and she doesn’t sleep over at his. But she goes over to his place early in the morning and tries to fix breakfast, waking Haymitch up because she has never cooked in anything except a high-tech Capitol kitchen. Haymitch ends up cooking for them both, rolling his eyes and griping the entire time.

The eggs are a little underdone and the bacon fattier than she would like, but it’s not half-bad.

After that, she cleans up, washing the dishes (Haymitch crows in surprise, “You mean to tell me the great Effie Trinket dirties her dainty hands with dish-washing?” and she forgets her manners, throwing a soapy sponge at him), and then she spends time tidying the rest of the house.

He groans about that, too, and yells at her for messing up his “organized chaos,” but Effie ignores him. It becomes a routine: she cleans something, he messes something else up. They argue over it, because Effie can’t help complaining about his lack of etiquette and Haymitch can’t stand listening to her bitch.

“I never asked you to come over here and clean every day,” he shouts at her. “You’re the one who pops in uninvited!”

She stops in mid-dusting, turning to look at him. Something resembling hurt flickers across her face as she drops the feather duster and steps away. “Well, if that’s how you really feel, Haymitch, you should have said something earlier,” she says primly. The old Effie would have been in tears, but this new person who isn’t quite Effie and isn’t quite someone else brushes her hands on her skirt and gathers her things. “I apologize for bothering you.”

Haymitch groans, because this is her way of telling him that he hurt her feelings. He never thought he would miss the tears, but he does. Tears were an overly-emotional response, and wasn’t that what Effie had always been to him? Overly-happy, overly-uptight, overly-oblivious. This Effie wasn’t overly-anything, except exasperating (the one trait the two Effies shared).

So when Effie opens his front door, he reaches out and closes it. “Look, Effie,” he says, and then the sentence dies on his lips. Saying he’s sorry is out of the question, but he knows she’s having adjustment issues. She’s had them ever since the rebellion.

“I thought you wanted me to leave,” Effie says coldly, pulling her hand away.

“I – I can’t do this,” Haymitch sighs, throwing his hands in the air. “I need a drink.”

“Yes, that’s your answer for everything,” she snaps. “I don’t know why. It hasn’t solved anything for you yet. It makes everything worse.”

“I don’t feel like talking about this with you,” he mutters, rummaging around the living room. There’s a bottle somewhere that he knows she can’t have found yet.

“Of course,” she says, and then she repeats it. “You never want to talk about anything. You’d rather drown in a damned bottle all day than have any sort of adult conversation about your feelings. You call me shallow and vain all the time, but when have you ever cared about anyone else besides yourself?”

He hears something shatter against the wall next to his head, and he turns from searching for his liquor to staring at the broken remains of an empty glass bottle. He raises his head to look at Effie, shaking from her anger.

“Did... you throw that at me?” he says, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to hit her or laugh at her.

“Yes, I did. Oh,” she breathes out, looking as confused as he does, and brings trembling hands to her mouth. “Oh, I just threw something at you.” She laughs manically, and Haymitch just stares, which makes her laugh even more.

“What the hell, Trinket?” he says, before he laughs. “You’re really nuts, you know that?”

“You are an insensitive ass,” Effie declares in return. “I am clearly having a nervous breakdown and you don’t even care!”

Haymitch doesn’t know when he got appointed to be her savior. He supposes it was right around the time Coin was telling the medics not to waste their time on keeping Effie Trinket alive and he had to do his damnedest to convince the woman that Effie wasn’t just some Capitol citizen. Either way, he almost wishes he had never bothered, because the one thing that hadn’t changed since the rebellion was Effie’s capability to annoy the hell out of him.

“Look, Effie, you’ve known me for years. When have I ever cared about anything?”

She doesn’t know how to respond, but that look crosses her face again. “Haymitch, please,” she says, and her tone is completely different from before. She sounds like she did when he visited her in District 13’s medical ward, lost and broken. “I need your help.”

He wants to say: “I can’t help anyone.”

He wants her to get out of his house and go bother Peeta and Katniss.

He really, really wants a drink.

He says nothing, and she takes that as a cue to keep talking. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t fit in here, but I can’t go back to the Capitol,” she says. “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.”

“Do you think you’re the only one that feels that way?” He finds his voice, his anger. His own frustration about the rebellion and trying to piece things together in this new world. “Damn it, Effie, your world was not the only one turned upside down.”

Effie stares for a long moment, and Haymitch doesn’t know what her expression is. He thinks it might be similar to the one she used to wear whenever he said something she deemed ridiculous.

“I’m not an idiot, Haymitch,” she finally replies and actually rolls her eyes. “I know that everyone else is confused. Why do you think I’m here? Not in District Twelve, but here, in your house? I want to help you!”

This is familiar territory for them. Slowly, Effie has become more like the Effie he remembers, the Effie he would fight with and then fuck after the cannons fired and their Tributes were dead. It never meant anything.

“I don’t want to be helped, Effie,” he tells her, laughs bitterly at the thought. “I want to be left alone.”

“Well, I don’t!” She balls her tiny hands into fists, sharp nails digging into her palms. “I cannot stand the thought of being alone. That’s why I live next door and I come over every damn day, because when I’m alone all I can think about is Peacekeepers coming through the door and dragging me away. I’m sorry, Haymitch, but I can’t deal with this with alcohol like you do, so I’m trying to cope the only way I know how.”

She’s shaking again, and he steps toward her, stops. “Effie…” He shakes his head, runs a hand over his face, through his hair. He is too sober for this. “I’m really not the best person for this…”

She closes the distance without thinking. She needs him to shut up, before he keeps making everything worse. They haven’t kissed in two years, but they were used to spending time apart between liaisons. It was always as if they had never been apart.

“You’re the only person I’ve got,” says Effie when she pulls back. “As sad as it is to say.”

Haymitch sighs, looking at her. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking of me, Effie,” he mutters.

Her eyes are bright blue from tears she hasn’t shed. When she speaks, her voice is soft and cracked. “All I’m asking is that you stop treating me like you don’t care.”

*

Things are… well, not good, but better between them after that. They don’t talk about the kiss. He lets her clean his house and nag about his drinking. He cooks their meals. She still has her own house, but she’s at his every day, all the time, from the moment she wakes up and sees fit to wake him up, until the sun sinks low beneath the horizon and she decides she is too tired to deal with his complaints about her any longer.

The routine is almost like when they were escort and mentor during the Games, but neither one of them tries to think about it like that. It simply feels familiar, like home, like something that used to be and they want to cling to because nothing is what it used to be.

They still fight, of course. Haymitch will say something one step too cruel, or throw something without thinking, or slam his hand on the table, and Effie will flinch before she’s yelling at him. Those nights end with Effie leaving before she usually would, some mess left untouched, and Haymitch pulling out a smuggled bottle of booze.

But she always comes back, bright and early and forcing him out of bed despite his still-drunken grumbling.

One night, there is a frantic knocking at his door, long after Effie had left. It had been a good day, one where his tongue behaved and she was less overbearing than usual, and he had went to sleep without touching his hidden stash of white liquor (it’s almost a game now to keep it away from Effie’s disapproving fingers and he secretly enjoys seeing how long it can go before she finds it or he gives into the urge for a drink).

Haymitch stumbles out of his bed, confused about who would be visiting him at this time of night – he doesn’t know what time of night it is, but it’s _late_ , he knows that much – and he is grumbling loud enough that he hopes the person on the other side of the door will think better of interrupting his sleep and get the hell away before the door is open. He opens it to reveal a trembling Effie Trinket, wrapped in a thin robe and wearing slippers, her blonde hair tumbling loosely over her back and shoulders.

He blinks at her, slowly taking in the wild expression on her face. There are tear stains on her cheeks and her eyes are wide, almost unseeing. She’s looking at him, but he thinks it’s more that she’s looking through him.

“Effie?” he finally manages, taking a wary step back from the doorway. He recognizes something he doesn’t like in her eyes.

“Haymitch,” she breathes, blinking several times at him, until her eyes meet his. “I-I’m sorry,” because she is ever polite, or at least ninety percent of the time she is, and she knows he was sleeping, “I had a nightmare and I couldn’t… I couldn’t get it to stop. Even once I was awake I just kept seeing it over and over and over…”

“All right,” he interrupts, because he can see her eyes flicker and he knows she’s replaying the images in her head again. “Come on in. It’s fucking cold out here.” He reaches for her arm but she jerks, so he holds his hands up, trying to calm her, lets her come in on her own. He walks her toward the couch, but he takes a seat in the nearby chair so she can have her space.

“You, uh, you want to talk about it?” he asks after a while.

She still trembles, hands twitching nervously in her lap, stares at the wall. She shakes her head, once, but then she’s nodding. “I was back in the Capitol,” she says, stumbling over her words. Her tongue is thick in her mouth, from sleep and from the remnants of fear still in her system. “Back in the detention center. They were torturing me again.”

The tears are back, falling unbidden, and she raises a shaking hand to brush them away. “They wouldn’t stop,” she says, but it’s more of a sob than actual words. “They kept taunting me, saying no one was going to come save me. That no one cared that I was there.”

Haymitch shifts in his seat, still unsure of how to deal with a crying Effie. Especially one that’s talking about past trauma. He wonders if he could wake Peeta up, see if he’d do any better. “Effie,” he says, because it’s a start, at least. “We did come save you.”

She nods, once, twice, several times in a way that is best described as manic. “They said it was a dream. That I had never gotten out, that it was something they put in my head because they hoped it would lead them to District Thirteen.” The tears continue to spill over, choking any further words, and she buries her face in her hands.

He moves to the couch next to her, slowly and gently placing his hand around her shoulders, and suddenly she is leaning heavily against him, her head in the crook of his neck. He tells her she can stay, that he has an untouched guest bedroom that she has made sure stays neat and untouched. She smiles through tears and lets him lead her to it, though she knows the way. The layout is identical to hers, and she has spent so much time there that she would know her way around. He waits until she climbs under the covers to turn off the light, and then he leaves her.

After that, she sort of just stays. Neither of them says anything about it, and slowly all of her stuff makes its way to Haymitch’s house. They both continue their routine as if nothing has changed. There are more nightmares, but infrequently, and Haymitch spends those nights at her bedside, because having someone nearby reassures her.

Peeta is the first to say anything about it, when he and Katniss are visiting for dinner. It’s been two years and they both bear the invisible scars of their traumas. Katniss in particular sits as still as stone, but her eyes sweep the dining room carefully, taking in the possible exits and any possible weapons. Her hand stays curled around the dull knife she used to butter her bread and cut her meat. Peeta doesn’t touch her, but rests his hand beside her white-knuckled fist on the table.

What he says, innocently and sincerely, is, “I’m happy for both of you.”

Effie pauses in the act of daintily buttering one of the rolls he had brought. “I’m sorry?” she says with several blinks to punctuate her confusion.

He swallows a sip of his tea, shrugs a little. “I didn’t mean to intrude. You haven’t said anything, but I assumed – since you moved in?” His brow furrows, looks to Katniss who is going to be no help at all, she returns his gaze blankly.

“Oh!” Effie exclaims, putting down her roll and knife, face flushed with embarrassment. Her eyes flicker nervously to Haymitch, who hasn’t said anything or really acknowledged anything Peeta has said. “Peeta, we’re not – This isn’t—” She wishes Haymitch would say something. He’s much better and blunter than she is.

But then Peeta is apologizing, _sorry_ and _I didn’t mean to pry_ and then Haymitch is finally speaking. He only asks for the bread basket, but Effie is more than happy to change the subject by handing it to him. Their fingers briefly touch and she looks away, takes a sip of her tea and wishes she hadn’t gotten rid of all of his white liquor.

Once they’re gone and Effie is doing the dishes (she still lets Haymitch cook for her, even though he’s only passable at it, and so she does the dishes after dinner), she glances at Haymitch over her shoulder. He is watching her with an unreadable look on his face. It gives her the courage necessary to say, “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, darlin’,” he drawls lazily. He seems a little too interested in drinking his tea right then. She thinks at first he’s being purposely obtuse and teasing her, but then he reaches for something under the table. He pulls out a small silver flask and adds a bit of something – liquor, no doubt – to his cup.

She purses her lips into the thinnest line possible. “You’re drunk,” she accuses, turning back to the sink. She scrubs hard at a nonexistent stain on the plate, because it makes her feel better. He has outsmarted her with the flask.

“I’m not,” he scoffs, and she knows he’s telling the truth. She has a lot of experience cataloging the signs of an intoxicated Haymitch, and the more she considers his voice and his appearance, the more she realizes he’s maybe buzzed at best. “And I didn’t have anything to say to Peeta. It’s none of his business what goes on here.”

Effie sets the dish aside on the drying rack, removes the gloves she wears to keep her skin protected. She doesn’t look back as she asks, “And what is going on here?”

Haymitch mutters a curse, and she hears him push away from the table. She assumes he is leaving, annoyed by her question, but then his footsteps are behind her, and she realizes he has come closer. He waits until she turns to look at him before he says, “Why do you always ask me questions I don’t know the answers to?”

She steps closer, cups his face, and presses a quick kiss to his mouth. It is impulsive, but feels familiar, natural, as if she has been kissing him all her life. She smiles as she pulls away, and a ghost of one plays on his lips.

Like everything between them, the change in their relationship is something they stumble into. The world spins one way, then suddenly it alters, shifts just a bit, but it feels like the world is righting itself, putting things back into order, the way they should be.

It feels like home.


End file.
